


What Was Once Lost

by TheLastSoldier2707



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Feelings, Fighting, First attempt at fanfiction, Fluff, Happy Ending, I don't know where this is going but I think its going somewhere, I dont think I will try smut yet even though one day I want to but I will tag accordingly, It was supposed to be truth or dare, M/M, Mind Palace, Pining Sherlock, Repressed John, Sherlock realizes his feelings, Tiny drug mention, Tooth Rotting Fluff, Unrequited Love, switching POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-05-30 18:03:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15102080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLastSoldier2707/pseuds/TheLastSoldier2707
Summary: Mycroft pays Sherlock a visit after he almost kills himself accidentally with an experiment. Troubled conversations between him and John resume budding in Sherlock what he fears the most- intimacy and strong emotions for another person. Both of them try to navigate the situation once the perspective is a little bit shifted, and Sherlock cannot believe his own observations once he finally realizes that which he feels in his own heart.





	1. A New Experiment, and the Hypothesis that He Does Not Want to Test

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment! All comments are greatly appreciated

“That barmy slimy insignificant-” 

“Sherlock, please. He is worried about you” John shifted in his seat to face the window. He knew that trying to get the prat to be sensible and not childish was a fool’s errand but he had to try regardless. It was a late Monday afternoon, and Sherlock had been sulking more recently and upon his brothers arrival became downright unbearable.

“He knows" Sherlock seeethed _." _ Mycroft sticks his fat nose into everything and ruins perfectly good-”

“ _ Unsafe!” _

“Experiments!” Sherlock prattles on. He hears John huff through his mouth, indignant but he brushes it off. 

“Maybe then, if you care so little for your transport and the house and other living creatures, think about me.” Sherlock raises an eyebrow at this, his expression a little more soft than the true neutral he tries to plaster on himself but nevertheless intrigued. “The incident with the eye jar and the mad doctor’s drug sample could have killed me just as easily as it could have killed you.” John said pointedly. “Who will clean up after your experiments if one of them killed your blogger?”

Sherlock says nothing at this his face inscrutable. He turns again and splays himself on the couch, opting again to delve into his mind palace. John thinks little of the moment and after another half hour or so of reading the newspaper, and clicking aimlessly through useless telly channels he shuffles off to bed. Sherlock can almost see him rubbing his neck and rotating his bum shoulder as he gets up but he doesn’t. It is easier to close his eyes and breathe, shallowly so as not to alert John, but enough to provide for his transport.  Why hadn’t he thought of that? Life without his blogger. He tried to push aside the thought- logically there was no reason to consider the idea, to entertain such a frivolous thought. John would always be there by his side, gun in hand, breathless at the end of an alleyway with a smile that was reserved for Sherlock. He would always be there to wear his ridiculous jumpers, his fuck-me jeans, and his get-lucky shoes to go on his dates with what could actually be the collection of most  _ boring insignificant  _ girls in all of London. 

Wouldn’t he? A lump tightened in his throat. An even more terrifying thought, would he grow tired of playing these games with him? Of the adrenaline and the battles, and of life with Sherlock? How long until John started caring for himself and realizing that maybe what's best for him wasn’t the life Sherlock wanted him to have. What if he leaves?

Why do I care so much? He thinks suddenly. Never before had he had to answer this  question or any of them near it. Sherlock Holmes did not care for anyone, he cared for The Work. John facilitated the work. John made it more valuable. 

_ There  _ he reasoned. A reason to put all of the quelling to rest. 

_ Please don’t go John, _ Mind Palace Sherlock gets out before he can stop the thought. 

_ I’ll find something to make you want to stay. With me. No more games, I promised.  _


	2. The Third Longest Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's long day, and the even longer background pining and conflict that neither of them know how to resolve. Emotions will ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third Person POV again, but with John's perspective. Again, this is the first fanfic I have ever written except a couple really bad chapters of a Stucky fic I wrote when I was 14. I am open to criticisms, as I am so very obviously a noob. Hope you all enjoy! Thank you for everything again. I hadn't expected any Kudos much less 36. I feel I might have to add "Major angst" to the tags. I will edit accordingly. Sorry this came out so much later than I said it would. I've gotten really busy.
> 
> I guess if anyone wants to follow me on Tumblr, I am rosaenvuelta  
> I mostly post aesthetic stuff, and some political stuff. I have been debating on whether or not to make a Sherlock side blog, and other such things let me know what y'all think.

     A loud crash on the landing wakes him. Having spent countless nights sleeping with one eye open, alert to the sounds of gunfire, bombs and the sporadic scream of horror, John is on his feet swiftly. John approaches the doorknob and slowly patters down the stairs, hitting the correct spots so that the old wood wouldn't creak underneed his callused feet. He noticed a dark hazy sunlight streaming in through the window downstairs as he descended indicating the very early morning. There was a shuffling of feet to his right, indicating one intruder. He reached for his Sig but realized quickly that he was wearing his pajama bottoms, and that his Sig was in the drawer and not in his hand where he needed it. What if someone were to kill him? Kill Sherlock? What if Mary was back to shoot his friend again?

_      No.  _ Mary is dead and the baby was a lie. It was all a lie.  _ Breathe. _ Sherlock. Sherlock was down there and he had to protect him. 

     Suddenly a mop of curls whips around at him from the kitchen. 

     “John. I didn’t mean to wake you. I was making a cuppa.” John analyses the war zone that the kitchen counters became, spilled with tea leaves and water, and down at the culprit of the noise, the broken sugar bowl. John raised an eyebrow at him. “Or attempting to anyway. Go back to bed John you still have a couple of hours until you have to return to that miserable dretch that you call a common Surgery.” The other eyebrow raised.

     “No it’s alright. I’m up now. I'll help you with that. Just get the broom.” He rubbed at his eyes. Sherlock whirled away as though undeterred, but he hadn’t managed to plaster his face back to emotionless normalcy in time for John to catch a glimpse of vulnerability. He said nothing on the subject. Once the mess was cleaned up they stood side by side in the kitchen as John finished making the tea, Sherlock’s with two sugars, and settled on their prospective chairs as the sun rose, John opting for the newspaper, and Sherlock checking his emails for a case on John’s laptop.

     “Sherlock why on earth were you up so early making tea? You never make tea.” He finally spoke. His mind had been wandering for the better part of fifteen minutes, and decided on what had unsettled him the most. He did have work soon, but something seemed off. Sherlock wasn’t making his usual comments of ‘Boring’ or ‘Idiot, it was the mother in law!’ in response to his numerous emails. He stayed silent, and tapped his fingers on his thigh repeatedly. John only noticed when more than an hour had passed, not a sound was uttered from the posh man, and he was still conscious. 

     “Mmmh?” Sherlock hardly acknowledged him.

     “The sun wasn’t even up. Did you not get any sleep again?”

     “John the  _ case” _

     “Sherlock we aren’t on any case. Unless you went out gallivanting through London in the hour I went to Tesco yesterday.” Sherlock made a noncommittal sound and after thirty seconds of staring at John in the eye, trying to deduce God knows what, he stood up to leave.

     “I believe your double shift at the Surgery starts in forty five minutes. Barely enough time to leave, ride the tube, and check in.” He looked at the window instead of John.

     “Double?”

     “Yes Margery is going to be calling in sick. Chicken gone bad.” With that, he closed the laptop and retreated to his room leaving a groggy John to collect his coat and keys and leave for the day. What was wrong with him? He knew Sherlock hardly got regular sleep so why was this bothering him so much? Nothing particularly spectacular had happened out of late other than Mycroft and his little tiff. So why was he so out of sorts? 

     Maybe it was all John’s imagination. Maybe he was projecting now that he had started dreaming about Mary again. Not that he missed her the way he missed the affection of warm decent human beings, and she certainly wasn’t one of them. But he missed the domestic life, and was haunted by the horrors of the decisions that he made to purge his loneliness, and now remained lonely. Perhaps something was wrong with John. His nights became increasingly less rejuvenating, and they hadn’t had a case in two weeks. A case would set them right. But at the moment he had to focus on work, so John mustered up his soldier-like demeanor and focus, and made his way. 

     He stepped into the clinic, saw three patients already two of which were exhausted looking mothers with their children who were likely sick the entire weekend, and knew it was going to be a very long day.

     Ten hours, three vomit incidents, twelve flu shots, and seven colds later, and exhausted John Hamish Watson stepped out of the clinic and onto the streets of London. His head was thick with exhaustion. He had been so busy he had no time to think other than wanting a pint or two. So he called a cab and sauntered off to the nearest pub. 

     He let himself rest on the worn seat cushions, inhaling the stale musty odor that the cab emitted. John closed his eyes, feeling the bumps on the road.  _ Bzzt! _ John checks his phone, to see 17 unread messages from Sherlock:

John I tried to make tea again, need to go to Tesco for more sugar- SH

Bored- SH

Third patient is faking the fever, wants attention- SH

Where do you keep your gun?-SH

John come home its urgent, I’m bored- SH

J-SH

O-SH

H-SH

N-SH

What did you do with my fingernail experiment?-SH

John when will you be home-SH

Please make me more tea-SH

I found your gun and will now be giving the holes in the walls friends because I am so utterly bored-SH

Give me my blogger back-SH

Why is every idiot in London sick today?-SH

John come home-SH

Please come home-SH

Griffin called, we have a case-SH

… John laughed to himself and shook his head before replying:

Don’t do anything stupid Sherlock. I will be home in a couple of hours. Need a pint or two.

Don’t wait up.

     John could viscerally imagine the prat roll his eyes at this, but it had been a tough couple of months. He had finally moved back into 221b Baker Street to a shaky uncertain future, but the only thing that mattered was that he had Sherlock. The entire ordeal with Mary shooting Sherlock, her being an assassin, the lies, and the miscarriage wore John out to the bone. He tried to be supportive of Sherlock, after all of his failures to him, and yet daily life still didn’t feel normal. He just wanted it to be normal again.

     The cab rolled to a stop at the front of a decent looking pub, and he handed the driver a couple quid and slid out. He had wanted some company, but according to Sherlock, Greg would be occupied with whatever new case had arrived, and Mike had been away on sabbatical. He knew that calling Molly would only lead to talking about Sherlock, and well, he didn’t feel like being indirectly interrogated at the moment. It had been hard enough to shove his feelings for him aside for almost a decade, and then he died and came back and there was Mary. No he would just have the pints himself and make it home eventually.  _ Home _ . 

     So he sat there, beer in hand, taking the occasional swig and looking out at the pub’s populus. There were three haggard looking business men, probably bankers from their attire, who most likely visited a pub together almost every day after work instead of coming home to wives that they didn’t love.  _ God  _ Sherlock must have really been rubbing off on him. There were two university girls there approaching a group of other young looking men and women looking for a shag. There was what appeared to be the pub’s older regular in the corner booth and a distressed looking couple, talking hushedly across from him. This was sad. John was sad, he thought miserably. If there was someone looking at him they’d probably pity the exhausted man with silvered hair, sitting at the bar by himself. 

     John was tipsy by the time that the clock struck ten, and he was fancying leaving, to avoid the inevitability of drunkenness and what that would mean for him. Sherlock would be looking out for him more now- he noticed his demeanor and mood, and slipping back into his alcoholism would be very not good. Before he could stand up he felt a tap on his shoulder.

     “Hi, my friends were over there and they got me to come and talk to you. Not-that this was a dare. You’re just cute.” She blushed. The woman was admittedly pretty, and didn’t appear to be much younger than he. She had no ring which was a good sign, and she appeared to be very nice and attractive, brown ringlets of hair resting softly on her round face. So why wasn’t he feeling more interest for her?

     “I’m sorry I was just about to leave.” He tries to be as polite as possible.

     “Going back to your wife?” She rubbed her neck in shame and disappointment.

     “No, no wife.” John winced.

     “Girlfriend then?” 

     “No girlfriend.” He smiled. Why didn’t he give it a try? This could turn out to be very good for him.

     “Good. If you really need to leave then let me give you my number, but I’d really love to stay and chat.” Her eyebrow was raised. 

     “Yeah I do, my- someone is expecting me, but I’d really like to see you again some time. What’s your name?”

     “Laura,” She appeared triumphant.

     “I’m John. I’ll give you a call then,” She takes out a pen and scribbles her number onto his palm. When she finishes, she looks him in the eyes, still holding on to his hand.

     “I’ll admit I was wary of approaching a lonely stranger in a pub but I’m excited to see where this goes. I mean, I love the romantics, but I can tell you’d be a great shag too.” She winks. That was unexpected but did a great deal of strain to his trousers, knowing that he had interested someone like that. She blew a kiss at him, “Until later, John.” He almost felt bad for leaving but was also exhausted and wanted to have at least one solid night’s sleep. He left the amber glow of the pub lighting and into the crisp London air. Once he called a cab, and made it to the front steps of 221b Baker Street, he lumbered up and shakily opened the door. 

     As he climbed the stairs he could hear the solemn melody float down the corridor. John couldn’t say that he expected this- even for someone like Sherlock, these mood swings had become untellable, and his emotion having gone from inscrutable to completely impossible to catch. John didn’t know what to expect as he opened the door to the place that he called home. 

     His first impression was that Sherlock was in the bathrobe that he loved so much, silky and that plum color that contrasted beautifully with his alabaster skin. He was standing in the far corner of the living room, facing the wall, eyes screwed shut. He didn’t so much as stir when he heard John enter the room. The air in the room was thick with emotion- ones John couldn’t begin to pick apart, the tension between them two growing steadily. So John crossed the room, and sat down in his chair, listening intently to the detective’s new composition, pretending to be busying himself with his phone. There they sat (stood) for the better part of two hours, not speaking a single word with each other until Sherlock loosened his bow, and set his violin back in his case. 

     The first thing that struck him was how open his expression was; sadness, isolation, (longing?). He turned to face John and quickly schooled his expression back to indifference. Shouldn’t the great consulting detective have deduced something as simple as John’s presence in the room? Some part of John knew deeply that Sherlock was always aware of his presence and of his staring, so why did he look surprised?

     “Sherlock, what’s wrong?” He started before he could change his mind. He knew that they didn’t talk about  _ feelings,  _ but the last time that he saw Sherlock like this was at his wedding. John shuddered, thinking back on the night when he convinced himself that he was wholly in love with Mary, and not having known about her past and her evils, that he had been  _ used  _ again. But also of Sherlock’s face that night, of the serenade, his speech.

     “Nothing is the matter John. I have experiments to attend to, so if you’ll excuse me,” He said, his voice cool.

     “Sherlock,”

     "Oh and we are out of the bread that you like. Dangerously close on the jam. You might want to swing by Tesco’s sometime soon.”

     “ _ Sherlock please _ ” John found himself pleading. Sherlock stopped in his tracks before continuing towards the kitchen. John followed him, and grabbed him by the arm, looking into those Icelandic sunrise eyes with an intensity, and what he knew for so long was love- a love that he tried to cover up platonically, that he cared for his best friend and only that. “Sherlock are you using again?”

     “What?” He looked almost hurt. “Then tell me John, how  _ did  _ you come to this conclusion,” Sherlock smiled at him sardonically. John knew it was over for him, that he made things from bad to worse, even if he had been worried for the man’s health.

     “Sherlock I-, the mood-, I’ve never seen-” He stopped himself. 

     “Right. You have no evidence. Nothing to base your moronic deductions on” John released his grip on Sherlock. The detective turned from him, but hesitated, and turned right back with a look of fury on his face.

     “Why are you here John? To take care of me like a wounded puppy? Does that make you feel good? Why don’t you go see that woman that so evidently wants your undivided attention?” Sherlock glared at the number smeared on his hand. 

     “Sherlock I want to be here.”

     “Well I DONT WANT YOU HERE” He almost bellowed. “You are a hindrance to my attention, John. You’ll leave anyways. So make it easier for the both of us, and just go.” John felt a lump in his throat. He knew he crossed a line accusing Sherlock of using again, but it was a legitimate concern, and he wanted to make it better again. He wanted his best friend. It was true, he did want to be here, and five years ago he would have jumped at the chance to go out with Laura, but he felt nothing now. Just a dragging weight in the bottom of his stomach and a longing that did not wean over the years regardless of the distractions. He was about to say something when he heard the sound. 

     Both of them looked over to Sherlock’s chair in the living room, unmoving for several seconds. It was a sound that made his stomach boil, that blinded him with red, that filled him with fury. The moan of a woman- the text alert. The Woman.  _ Case solved  _ John thought bitterly. Before Sherlock could deduce anything from his face, he turned and bounded up the stairs, stopping himself from running and slamming the door. It was one in the morning, and despite the pure exhaustion he felt earlier, and the peace he felt while listening to Sherlock play, he was wide awake now. Wide awake and angry. Why was he so angry? John already knew the answer to the question, the Sherlock in his mind called him an idiot. John knew, and it made his skin crawl and his rationale go out the window. 

_      He’s mine. She’s supposed to be dead. No,  _ the Sherlock in his brain countered,  _ You should be mine, but you aren’t mine. _ But in his heart he knew that he never had a chance. Why would Sherlock not love the beautiful, clever, enigmatic Woman. The one who survived it all, and played his games. 

_ Not mine. Never mine.  _

     It took John five more hours to fall asleep, twisting and turning, burning with what he knew was jealousy. This had been the longest day he had ever had to endure- no the third. The first was watching Sherlock jump off of Bart’s and the second was his own wedding night, and the feelings that seemed to be missing for the blushing bride next to him. The thought made him curl into himself even closer, refusing to think of him again. Refusing to think about his face tonight after playing, his face while playing for John at his wedding. He woke up at noon, and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. He noted the smell of cigarette smoke that lingered in the hallway. John didn’t know what to do with himself. 


End file.
